


Safe as Houses

by elegantstupidity



Category: Leverage
Genre: 3+1 times, F/M, Getting Together, M/M, Multi, Multishipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: Eliot's seen his share of safe houses in his time. Spent plenty of it holed up with all kinds, too. It's not until he's out of the game that he actually finds one he doesn't mind.(3 times Eliot seeks shelter + the 1 time he actually finds it)
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer, Damien Moreau/Eliot Spencer, Maggie Collins/Eliot Spencer, Mr. Quinn/Eliot Spencer (Leverage)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74
Collections: Little Black Dress Exchange 2020





	Safe as Houses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merle_p](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/gifts).



There wasn't much Eliot liked about this job. 

He didn't like that he hadn't been allowed to do recon himself or bring his own weapons to the meet. He didn't like that the client had insisted on accompanying him, leaving Eliot to split his attention between securing the package and making sure the guy cutting his check didn't get his handsome smirk shot off when things went south. He didn't like that his lack of preparation meant he'd been left to rely on the client to provide somewhere to hole up together. He really didn't like that he'd been forced into a safe house he hadn't secured. Or stocked. 

Which meant, to top it all off, he was now confronted by the indignity of a kitchen practically devoid of food.

However much he might be tempted, Eliot didn’t slam the cupboard door shut. There wasn’t anything to rattle around the empty shelves, but he didn’t trust the thin plaster on the walls to keep the sound from carrying to the apartment next door. While he wouldn't put it past his client to have paid off his neighbors, to say nothing of the local police, Eliot didn't exactly relish the idea of putting his theory to the test. The residents of this tower block might be willing to turn a blind eye to plenty of shady business, but a disturbance in a supposedly abandoned unit might be pushing their luck. 

Then again, considering the sparely stocked pantry—though that seemed generous for a tin of sardines, a loaf of stale bread, half a package of dry spaghetti, a can of peeled tomatoes, and a few other non-perishables—maybe his luck had already run out. It probably was too much to ask that he both escape almost certain death at the hands of his employer’s “business contacts” and be able to cook a nice meal afterward to drain the excess adrenaline still coursing through his veins. 

Grumbling to himself, Eliot turned back to his spare ingredients, shuffling them together in his mind until he came up with something appetizing or at least edible. As he put water on to boil in a dented pot he unearthed from beneath the sink and pulled his knife from its sheath at his back, Eliot did his best to focus on the task at hand.

Today’s job was done, the package he’d been assigned to retrieve sitting in a nondescript backpack three feet away; he could relax now. 

No matter how many times he told himself, though, his body wouldn’t listen. Likely because it sure as hell didn’t feel like the job was done with the man who’d given it to him lounging not even five feet away.

Eliot could feel the attention of his boss, all amusement and none of the admiration he’d earned for getting them out of what had turned out to be one of the most heavily armed board meetings he’d ever witnessed without a scratch on them. The guys who’d decided to try and extract a higher price for their goods, on the other hand...

“You are a man of hidden talents, Eliot Spencer,” Damien Moreau observed, eyes trailing over Eliot in a long, assessing caress. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, not even from a client, but the fact that his perusal didn't make Eliot's jaw clench was. "If I'd known you were going to cook me dinner as well as save my life, perhaps I would have brought you to a different location. One where you could better demonstrate your skills."

"Ain't that hard to make some pasta," he replied tersely, continuing to chop sardines with a bit more focus than the task really required. It was no surprise that a man with fingers in as many pots as Damien Moreau had multiple properties in one city, even a city where he'd professed not to spend much time. Anyway, it wasn't as if Eliot was one to be impressed by a nicer apartment or grand house, even one with a view of the Danube or a restaurant-grade range. Might make cooking dinner, easier, though.

Moreau made a sound of ambivalence, but even without looking up Eliot could tell the man was still studying him. If he gleaned anything from his inspection, though Eliot had been careful to keep his body language and expression utterly neutral, was impossible to say. Whether he did or not, Eliot heard the creak of floorboards as Moreau paced over to the bar cart—the only fully stocked thing in the place and began mixing a drink. A dirty martini from the sound of it. 

“You should relax, Eliot. Have a drink.”

Well, the job was over. “I’d take a beer.”

Moreau just laughed, and if it was impossible to completely ignore the hint of condescension in the sound, then at least it was easy to focus on the pleased tilt to his lips. “So American,” he said. "Unfortunately, as I'm sure you already saw, I have no beer to offer you. I will be sure to have it on hand the next time we work together."

Eliot couldn't help the twitch of his lips. It hadn't been a test—and if it were, it'd be a dumb one—but the idea of working with Moreau, like they were in it as equals, again... It didn't sound like a bad deal. There was something he didn't quite trust about the man, but there was something that Eliot didn't quite trust about a lot of the people he worked with. That didn't make Moreau special.

No, what made him special was the fact that on the list of all the things Eliot didn't like about this job, Damien Moreau himself was nowhere to be found.

Strolling back to the rickety workbench where Eliot still worked with his drink in hand, Moreau's head tilted. The dark sweep of his hair, disheveled from their flight through the city, fell into his eyes, and Eliot spent longer than necessary memorizing the way it made the man who'd been ice cold in the face of betrayal from his business partners seem almost warm and friendly.

Looking down at the spread of ingredients with only vague interest, he asked, “Is this a service you offer all your clients?”

“‘M not usually stuck in a safe house with a client, Moreau.”

“Now, that’s a bit formal, isn’t it?” he returned. “I think men who save my life can call me Damien.”

Putting his knife down, Eliot finally looked the man in the eyes. There was no jolt, no surprise in what he found there—there was a reason Eliot had tried not to pay Damien Moreau too much attention. 

“There many of us?” he challenged, crossing his arms over his chest as an extra barrier between him and a man who seemed to see him too clearly. 

“Very few.” 

Eliot swallowed at the burst of heat that sprang to life between his lungs. Moreau’s voice had dropped low and dark, an invitation if he’d ever heard one. The way he was looking at Eliot, the mirth he’d felt just moments before deepening into intent intensity, only underlined his feeling. 

“Damien,” he finally said, his own voice a tentative match for his employer’s tone. 

Immediately, Eliot was rewarded with a dangerous curl of Damien’s lips, and immediately, he wanted more of that. More of that flutter of pride for pleasing this man, who did not seem like he could be easily pleased. 

“Eliot,” Damien said, as silky as Eliot had ever heard him, “much as I’m intrigued by your culinary skills, I can think of better ways to celebrate a job well done.”

If some part of Eliot wanted to point out that there was nothing quite like a homemade meal, even made with ingredients that had possibly been bought before the Berlin Wall fell, he held his tongue. He got the feeling that Damien Moreau wasn’t the kind of man who enjoyed being contradicted. And in the face of his fluid gait and the heat of his body he came to stand beside Eliot, well within his usual buffer of personal space, that small voice was easily drowned out.

So, he left his knife where it lay next to the cutting board and followed Moreau a the dark bedroom to see if he wasn’t right after all.

* * *

Seconds ticked by in Eliot’s head, each a calculated risk that he desperately hoped wouldn't come back to bite him, or anyone else, in the ass.

Drawing deeper into the shadows of the bougainvillea twining above the door, Eliot counted in his head.

At least twenty to wake up and actually hear him knocking. Judging by the plans he'd memorized last year, another thirty to get out of bed and make it to the front door. Which meant—

On cue, the light above the door flicked on. He didn’t flinch, even if he couldn’t keep himself from shifting his weight between his feet. It might be the middle of the night in a sleepy residential neighborhood of LA, but that didn't mean someone wasn't watching.

Taking a deep breath, Eliot tried to dismiss the thought. He might've succeeded if it was the kind of thing he could defeat with fists and knives and his finely honed experience, but he knew better than most that fear didn't die under the threat of violence. Naturally, his hung around. Guilt, slick and weighty, roiled in his gut, however misplaced.

He hadn't picked this doorstep, of all the places in LA that might offer him sanctuary, without careful consideration. If all of Eliot's fake identities hadn't been burned, including the few boltholes he'd set up without telling anyone—not that he expected them to stay secret with a 22-year-old with a computer and no sense of personal boundaries when financial records were involved hanging around—in the IYS thing a few months ago, he wouldn't have made his way here. If Eliot weren’t absolutely sure he’d lost his tail twenty minutes ago, nothing could’ve made him approach the house. If he hadn't still taken a precautionary detour, monitoring his rearview mirror carefully for any of the six distinctive tells of a Russian heavy dogging his trail, and noted nothing suspicious for at least fifteen miles, Eliot would've kept on driving.

He wouldn't forgive himself if he dragged danger to this door. 

Knowing he'd done everything in his power to prevent that and thinking he was actually right for taking the risk were two very different things.

What was done was done, though, and Eliot could do nothing but look squarely in the peephole and let the woman he’d no doubt woken up get a good look at him and decide if she wanted to let him in. 

After an agonizing moment, he heard the lock disengage just before the knob turned and the door swung open. 

“Eliot?”

Her blonde hair mussed by her pillows and her oversized sleep shirt askew on her shoulders, Maggie Collins blinked at him like she wasn’t sure she wasn’t still dreaming.

“Maggie,” he said, trying to keep both the guilt and the edge out of his greeting. “I’m sorry to wake you, but—”

Eliot didn’t need to finish before Maggie was stepping aside, ushering him in. By instinct, his eyes swept the room, cataloging entrances and exits and anything that might get in the way if he hadn't been as tail-free as he believed. If he was a bit surprised by what he found, he didn't get a chance to give it voice because however readily she let him inside, though, Maggie wasn’t going to let his sudden and unexpected appearance pass without question. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, closing the door and locking it behind him like her single deadbolt would be enough to keep her safe. Mentally, Eliot tried to tick through ways to tell Nate his ex-wife needed better security measures without having to explain how, precisely, he knew that. “What time is it, even?”

“It’s 2:36,” he replied without looking at his watch. 

Maggie laughed, a short, exhausted sound, and shook her head. She turned from him and shuffled into the kitchen. Eliot followed at about three paces, being sure to give her her space, though she didn’t seem to notice. She was remarkably unruffled by letting an almost stranger, albeit one she'd flirted with under another identity, into her home. Part of Eliot couldn't help but wonder if she'd as readily welcome Dr. Adam Sinclair, or maybe, by this time of the night, he'd already be here, waiting for her to come back to bed. He'd never been particularly attached to any of his covers, but the image, the possibility of belonging somewhere, his mind provided sent a pang of nostalgia, not quite regret, fluttering through his gut.

She opened a cupboard and retrieved a glass that she filled with water. Easing herself into one of the chairs at her little kitchen table, she took a sip. "I'd offer you a drink, but—"

Gesturing around the room, she drew Eliot's attention to the multitude of cardboard boxes, fewer than there'd been in the front room but still mostly half-packed, sitting on any available flat surface once more. He'd counted them as he came in, took in the color-coded labels—one likely destined for storage, one for donation, and one to take with—and noted that there'd only been one set of dishes beside her glass in the cabinet.

Clearly, Maggie wasn't sticking around LA much longer than Eliot himself. 

"You letting me in was plenty." He smiled, only crossing the room to sit across from her when she nodded to the empty chair. "You mind if I ask where you're going?"

Maggie smiled back readily, but her answer was vague enough to meet Eliot's approval and leave him a bit disappointed at the same time. "I got a job offer from a museum in Ukraine. I start in three weeks." Her head tilted to the side as she studied him. Maybe if she were more awake or he were another one of her works of art, she could've discovered something.

As it was, she gave up without much frustration, her curiosity no match for Eliot's impassive facade or her exhaustion. 

"So," she said, smile turning a little rueful, "are you just the advance guard? Do I have Hardison and Sophie to look forward to tonight?"

Eliot shook his head. "Just me. I'd've gone somewhere else. I should've gone somewhere else—"

"It's all right. I'm glad to see you."

There was no deception in Maggie's words or the way she looked at him. Still, Eliot couldn't help but feel like she wouldn't mean it half so much if she knew more about him, knew more than the fact that he'd helped take down Blackpoole. But if she knew more, like, say, the reason he was here in LA and would be heading off to Pakistan in short order, then she probably wouldn't be looking at him like that. 

And he wanted her to keep looking at him like that.

Softly, she laid her hand, fingertips damp and cool from her glass, against Eliot's cheek. He held himself still enough to let her. 

Maggie didn't say anything, but the canny tilt of her mouth spoke more than any words she might offer. Maybe Maggie understood more than he gave her credit for. If she did, then her easy acceptance of his presence here said all the more.

Her thumb arced across his cheekbone, just the barest hint of pressure, like she thought he was as fragile as the masterpieces she worked with every day. 

It shook need loose from deep inside Eliot, where he kept those things that were too dangerous to let out into the light, tucked away under lock and key.

So, he turned his face into her palm, pressing his lips to her warm skin. Heat sparked in Maggie's eyes, blotting out any exhaustion. Slim as she was, she had no problem dragging him to his feet or pulling him close. With her arms looped around his neck and her lips mere inches from his, she breathed, "You can stay, can't you?"

She wasn't asking about forever, Eliot knew that. He wouldn't know what to do if she, or anyone, ever did, but that didn't matter in the quiet of Maggie's dark kitchen. 

This safe harbor, it was temporary, but that didn't mean Eliot couldn't enjoy it while he was here. He might not be able to give Maggie much, especially compared to what she'd given him by just allowing him in, but he could certainly give her a night. 

He settled his hands on her hips, drawing her closer. "I'd love to." His voice was a low rumble when he answered, but they were so close, it didn't matter. Besides, they were both more interested in what would come next. 

* * *

“By the end of this, I think you’re gonna owe me more than just one favor,” Eliot growled. He glanced at the windows on his next circuit of the living room but knew better than to twitch aside the curtains for a good look at the street. It’d be an obvious signal to anyone potentially watching. Given the way things had gone south on what was supposed to be an easy two-man exfiltration, "a simple favor," he'd been told, it was no guarantee that someone wasn't.

From his spot on the couch, looking deeply unconcerned for a man who’d only barely outrun gunfire and a squad of Red Wa out of Thailand if their tread patterns were any indicator, Quinn just shrugged. If it weren't for the way he was tracking Eliot's every move across the polished floor, he might actually look relaxed.

"What are a few bullets between friends?" Quinn philosophized, stretching an arm over the back of the couch and most probably putting whatever weapon he'd stashed in the cushion in easy reach. Eliot couldn't blame him; if it were his safe house, he'd be doing the same. And it wasn't as if his own behavior would put anyone at ease. The pacing helped him work off some of the leftover jitters of a good fight, though, and Eliot would rather get it out of his system than worry about whether or not Quinn was properly relaxed. If he were jumpy enough to try and come at him with a— What was it, a knife? No bulge behind the cushion. Had to be pretty flat. Well, whatever it was, Eliot would deal with it.

"Those weren't my friends."

“No, and a good thing," he drawled, rolling his eyes. "Who knows what kind of wrench your friends would've thrown into the works."

Eliot's jaw tightened, but he didn't jab back with an assertion that at least Hardison would've had warning that reinforcements were going to cut off their exit and that Parker would've had them out before those goons' boots ever hit the pavement. It was true, yet Eliot didn't want to talk about Hardison and Parker. Not when it would just make Quinn's eyes light up like he'd caught an opening Eliot hadn't meant to leave unguarded. 

Whether or not he actually had wasn't up for discussion. 

"Think your shoddy intel threw enough wrenches for the meantime."

Eyes narrowing, Quinn rolled to his feet with a grace that Eliot knew all too well. It was how he moved, not a single motion extraneous or unnecessary. Like mirror images, their shoulders squared, balance poised, gazes locked together. 

Apparently, the time for pacing was over; those excess jitters were going to be put to other uses.

In unspoken agreement, they began to circle one another, both utterly aware of their surroundings and the generic, expendable furniture that would nonetheless be a bitch to clean up if things got out of hand. Each zeroed in on the man before him.

Eliot spared himself an assessing glance. Since the Dubenich thing, Quinn hadn't lost the ponytail, but he had put on a few pounds. The new bulk in his shoulders kept testing the seams of his shirt, old enough to have lost and regained a button at some point. He might have the height and weight advantage on Eliot, but so did a lot of guys he went up against. It usually didn't end so well for them. It wouldn't for Quinn, either. Especially since he'd likely sprained a knee two months ago; while the joint never faltered, he sometimes hesitated to put his full weight on it.

Just as he cataloged, Eliot knew he was being seen and taken apart, his body broken down into mere bits and pieces and analyzed for potential weaknesses. 

There was something comforting in the familiarity of it all. 

He even found something comforting about Quinn's fist lashing out, aiming for his left side only for the other to come in low to the ribs. 

Eliot grunted but didn't let himself pause to relish the way his blood began to sing. This might be easier in a gym, or just somewhere they weren't in danger of smashing into side tables or tripping over electrical cords, but a spar was a spar. And Eliot wasn't going to pass this one up. It wasn't every day he got a chance to fight a worthy opponent, someone with a little more style than the average goon he came across. Hell, it wasn't every day he got to fight someone as good as himself. Well, nearly.

Dodging and coming up under a stiff uppercut, Eliot's knuckles connected with Quinn's sternum, harder than a lovetap. Quinn laughed around the wheeze, but the look in his eyes hardened; he didn't like being on the defensive. Eliot just raised a brow, not bothering to fight the feral grin spreading across his lips or shake his hair out of his eyes. 

They dodged around the furniture and each other, shifting stances and attacks between boxing and capoeira and Krav Maga and back again. They had to read one another on the fly, getting only a split second to figure out what was coming next and how best to counter it. Quinn got his fair share of hits in, but so did Eliot, neither gaining much advantage on the other, but pretty happy to keep testing reflexes and string together combinations that might come in handy some day.

Though they certainly traded more blows, mostly, they sized one another up, throwing jeers and taunts more than fists or elbows. 

"What is this," Quinn demanded, only just beginning to sound a little ragged, "a dance? C'mon and hit me, Spencer."

Feeling the burn in his own lungs, Eliot shrugged. They'd worked off most of their post-job adrenaline. If Quinn wanted to get impatient, that was fine by him.

"You asked for it."

Without any other warning, he charged, lowering his shoulder to take Quinn down to the floor. His breath rushed out of him when they landed, but Eliot was better trained than to let something as trivial as getting the wind knocked out of him force him into relinquishing his grip on a target. They scrabbled, grappling for the upper hand as they rolled around on the floor. This close, it was hard not to appreciate how much work Quinn must have put into building up his muscle, keeping himself limber enough to writhe out of a weaker hold but strong enough to overpower most.

Of course, Eliot was not "most." 

His arm a hard bar across Quinn's throat, he could feel every muscle work as his sometime-rival-sometime-ally swallowed. 

"Hit you hard enough?" he asked, unable to keep the smirk off his face. 

Rather than try and break the hold, Quinn just smirked lazily back. He leaned up, forcing his windpipe harder against Eliot's forearm. It wasn't until his knee drew up, tracing along Eliot's inseam, that Eliot quite realized this was exactly where Quinn had been angling to get the entire job. Now that they were there, Eliot found that for once, he didn't have much to complain about in Quinn's planning.

"Not bad," Quinn allowed. His hips began to roll, the only movement Eliot's pin left room for. Until Eliot's hips answered the movement, giving him the chance to snake out a leg to hitch around Eliot's thigh, which he promptly took advantage of. "Now, why don't you prove you've got the moves where it really counts?"

It was the kind of stupid, ridiculous line Eliot might've used even a few years ago that he couldn't help but laugh. Still, it was just the sort of challenge he couldn't resist. Eliot grinned, just as bloodthirsty as when he and Quinn had been trading jabs, leaned in, and resolved to show off just what moves were in his arsenal.

"You're still gonna owe me more than one favor after this," Eliot warned, just before their lips could connect. 

"Sure," Quinn agreed, close enough that when his tongue darted out to wet his lips, it caught Eliot's too. "But let's just see if you still think that by the time we're done here."

Eliot wasn't sure he'd be able to live up to his boasting, but he certainly had no problem letting him try.

* * *

Easing himself onto the stool, the one he always sat in when they debriefed unless Parker had already decided she was going to claim it for herself, Eliot's eyes closed. He could hear Hardison, who'd snagged his seat from beneath the long counter of the command station with a deft hook of his ankle before throwing himself into his own spot, already clacking away at his laptop. No doubt he was already checking in on their mark, possibly even initiating failsafes to keep him well away from this "less than public" branch of the office for all that they'd gotten out of that sketchy bayside warehouse scot-free.

They were in the clear.

Still, he was glad they'd come here rather than their actual office. He'd been in enough of Hardison's safe houses to know there wasn't anything he needed to check on or reinforce. So while he couldn't go collapse on the outrageously cushy sectional with a knife slash still sluggishly bleeding onto the back of his shirt and jacket—if he woke up to another lecture about getting blood on the damn furniture, Eliot wouldn't be the only member of Leverage, Incorporated with an open wound—Eliot could afford to relax. 

But just for a moment. He'd probably be better off stopping his bleeding sooner rather than later.

With a grunt, he shrugged out of his jacket, letting it drop to the floor, and rolled up the hem of his shirt. When he reached around to assess the damage, he winced at the pull, his fingers just barely brushing the edge of his injury and coming away rusty with half-dry blood. 

"Parker, you got—"

Before he could finish, Parker materialized before him, well-stocked first aid kit in hand. She dumped it in his lap with a frown and was gone again in a blink.

Shaking his head, Eliot rifled through the kit's contents and came up with an alcohol swab. Tossing the kit up onto the counter beside one of Hardison's computers and tearing the packet open with his teeth, he settled in to patch himself up. It'd be a stretch, the long cut right in that awkward spot on his back that didn't offer a good angle when it itched or needed seeing to. 

He still hadn't quite figured out how he was going to manage to clean his wound—and it definitely needed cleaning; who could ever say where an Irish mobster's switchblade had been last?—when the moist towelette was whisked from his hand just as Parker's fist connected with his shoulderblade, knuckles flat against his scapula, wrist straight.

Atta girl. Just like he taught her.

Pride fled at the realization that Parker wasn't just stealing from him for fun. 

"I got it," he tried, but the thief made an unimpressed sound from her position behind him, where she no doubt had a better vantage on his injury.

Which was exactly what worried him. 

Parker'd been rightfully prohibited from anything resembling first aid back when the team first came together; it was better for everyone involved. Eliot thought she might've learned that not everyone had her freaky pain tolerance in the intervening years, but he wasn't exactly eager to test the hypothesis. With Hardison off monitoring their escape, making sure no one had picked up their trail, it looked like he didn’t have much of a choice. 

Surprisingly, her cool, dry hands, calluses as familiar as his own, felt nice enough against his skin. She had one palm flat against his back as the other got to work. The methodical wiping as she cleaned the area around his wound was steady, almost soothing. As she discarded the first wipe and grabbed another, hand still braced against his spine, Eliot nearly made the mistake of relaxing once again. 

Any possibility of that flew out the window when Parker jabbed the deepest part of the slash with the new alcohol swab, practically stabbing him all over again.

"Damn it, Parker!" he hissed, muscle memory nearly making him trip over her name. But Hardison was still hunched over his keyboard, typing furiously as he muttered to himself about erasing security footage and burning aliases. To cover his near stumble, Eliot jerked away from her merciless hands with a scowl. "You trying to finish the job?"

She scoffed and swiped at the cut again, another bright burn of alcohol on broken skin. "Don't be such a baby." There was none of Parker's usual unconcern for social niceties or normal human behavior. Instead of finding it charmingly weird as usual, Eliot felt frustration seep into him, a match for Parker's. He could practically hear the way the corners of her lips had tugged down.

Rather than let her attack him in the name of medical attention again, Eliot swiveled, making to swat her hand away, but Parker evaded. She'd always been light on her feet, to say nothing of her advantage in not having been nearly stabbed tonight, and Eliot knew he had next to no chance at catching her.

"Give it here," he demanded. "You can't just maul me when I've got my back turned. It ain't funny."

Parker's jaw set in stubborn defiance, and Eliot could just about feel his blood pressure ratcheting up. 

"Whoa, whoa!" Hardison exclaimed, sliding between them before either could explode. He flapped his arms like it would dispel the fury that had built up in the air in just a few seconds. "What happened here?"

"Parker's trying to murder me."

"Eliot's being a baby."

They glared at one another around Hardison's lanky frame, making him force out a strained laugh. 

"Right," he drawled, gaze darting between thief and hitter and quickly, rightfully or not, concluding that Parker was the bigger threat. Hardison turned to her. "Remember what we decided?" Her brows furrowed, making her anger—though why the hell she was angry with Eliot, who'd just done his job and kept his team safe, he couldn't begin to say—look more like worry. Parker nodded, her eyes darting to Eliot only once. Hardison smiled and relieved her of the swab. "Why don't you go sit down while I get Eliot cleaned up, and we can... discuss."

Warily, Parker nodded once again. This time when she looked at Eliot, she didn't look away, not even when she hopped soundlessly up to sit on top of the command center. Right where Eliot's stool would usually be placed. With Hardison already gingerly dabbing at the cut on his back, Eliot had no qualms about staring her down.

Just how was her mind was ticking and turning tonight? He might've gotten better at reading Parker over the years, could usually figure out her next move or where her head was at during a job, but sometimes, she went right back to being the inscrutable maniac he'd first met. 

"What're we discussing?" he asked, terse.

Hardison's hands faltered for just a moment before taking up their gentle work once more. Eliot didn't wince at all as an antibacterial gel was smoothed over the cut. He was, however, running out of patience. 

"Hardison," he prompted, nearly a growl.

Hardison sighed behind him, applying one last butterfly bandage. He resituated Eliot's shirt before stepping around to lean against the counter beside his girlfriend so they could both face him. Absurdly, Eliot felt like he was back in the principal's office, answering for whatever misbehavior he'd been caught at.

"Well, you see—"

"You're taking too many risks." Parker's expression was unyielding, only the creases at the corners of her mouth belying any unease.

Eliot couldn't help it. He flinched. He hadn't ever met an acceptable risk he didn't like, but that didn't mean he was reckless. 

Stiffly, he said, "I do what's necessary to do right by our clients."

"And we'd never ask you to do otherwise," Hardison assured him in an overly soothing tone.

"But you jumped in front of a knife attack tonight!" Parker burst, shattering any of the conciliatory atmosphere Hardison might have established.

"They were gonna stab you, Parker! What did you want me to do?"

"Let me handle it! Why else have you been teaching me?"

Something deep and fundamental within Eliot recoiled at the thought. Parker might be an excellent pupil, far better than Hardison who got too in his own head to be much of a natural fighter, but that didn't mean he would ever leave her to fend for herself. Not when he was in range and could handle the threat himself. So what if he got a little banged up doing it? Better him than Parker or Hardison. 

"That's not my job," he said, low and emphatic. 

"Well, it's not mine to watch you get hurt for me," she returned heatedly.

Something flickered in her expression, just for a second, but sometimes, a second was all Eliot got. A mere flash was enough to recognize it: Parker, who was more fearless than any of the guys he'd ever served with, had been scared. 

Eliot turned his gaze to Hardison and saw that worry mirrored in his face, less wrapped up in layers of self-preservation, but profound all the same. 

"I'm okay." Hardison and Parker traded a glance that didn't make Eliot want to growl and pull them in for long embrace all at once. "I am."

Managing a tentative grin, Hardison nodded. "Only 'cause we dragged you back here and got you all patched up."

Eliot rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Parker, however, was unwilling to be so easily swayed. 

Dropping down to the floor without a sound, she stepped into Eliot's space. He knew her so well, had the way she moved imprinted in the deepest corners of his mind, that he didn't flinch or tense at all, not even when she picked up one of his hands. She laced their fingers together, uncommonly willing to be tethered, even by something so simple as his hand in hers. 

"You know we can't do this without you, Eliot."

He tried to smile soothingly, but the thump of his heart made it hard. "You two'd get by just fine without me."

"Nah, man," Hardison said, stepping forward to stand beside Parker, but it wasn't until he picked up Eliot's free hand that he realized they were talking about more than Leverage. "Without you, there is no us."

Forget any pain he might've been in when they first came through the door. Forget any muted longing he'd ever felt for his two partners in altruistic crime. Forget any time he'd ever felt less than perfectly at home. This moment was enough to wipe all that doubt and fear clean from his memory, the sight of two hands in his brilliant enough to make everything that led to this all worthwhile.

Of course, Eliot couldn't just revel in this realization, not when he had to formulate some kind of reply and the people he needed to give it to were not paragons of patience.

"Do you think he got it?" Parker whispered, not at all under her breath. 

"We weren't real subtle."

"Damn it," Eliot cursed, more to himself than anyone else. "Of all the people I'd get stuck on."

"Count yourself lucky," Hardison scoffed, teeth flashing brightly in his grin. He gave Eliot's hand a grateful squeeze. 

"C'mon," Parker laughed, all her anger and worry melted away, "it's not like you wouldn't pick us anyway."

When she put it that way, Eliot couldn't say she was even remotely wrong.

And with their hands in his, he didn't even mind.


End file.
